


I Need Not To Hear You

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Feels, Hurt John Watson, John has only been back at 221B a week or two, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining Sherlock, Set in the first third of I Need You To See Me, Suffering, Veteran John, hurt without comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12483992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: I was so inspired byI Need You To See Meby Mssmithlove that I wanted to write an outtake. If you haven’t read this Angst!Classic, go read it NOW. It’s phenomenal. I wrote this little fic as a thank-you tribute to Mssmithlove.This fic is set a week or two after John returns to 221B after being discharged from hospital. Things are very strained between Sherlock and John. Sherlock’s brittle-to-breaking. And John can’t remember a single moment of their life together.





	I Need Not To Hear You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mssmithlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Need You To See Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809377) by [Mssmithlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssmithlove/pseuds/Mssmithlove). 



Sherlock waited until the _thunk-thunk-thunk_ of John on crutches, dragging his cast up the stairs, subsided. He was eager to go to sleep, something new since John’s return to 221B. 

Sherlock was tired - the strain of acting as if he were okay, of restraining himself from throwing his arms around John and weeping, of trying to pretend that he wasn’t falling apart bit by bit wore on him. He’d slept more since John came home from hospital than he had in all the months combined of John’s second tour in Afghanistan. Sherlock rubbed his brow and waited for the click of the upstairs bedroom door - John’s door once again - to signal that John was turned in for the night.

At last the blessed click echoed off the stairwell walls and Sherlock was free to go to bed. He performed his ablutions quickly, shed his clothes and wilted into bed. The long day of attending to John’s needs without appearing to be attentive had been exhausting. It was enough to truly drive him mad. He cocooned himself in the top sheet, the thick, soft cotton a hollow balm to skin that craved the embrace of his husband, the warmth of tanned skin against his.

Just as Sherlock drifted into a light sleep, a sound drifted through the floorboards. _John_. Movement in the room above his. John moving about, shuffling due to the cast on his leg and foot. The sound moved to the corner - _the chair in the corner_ \- then stopped. John had obviously gotten out of bed to sit in the bedroom chair. _Why_? Surely his broken ankle would be more comfortable in bed. Why would he spend time in the uncomfortable wooden chair when a large, soft bed was only a few feet away?

Memories of times he and John had spent in that large, soft bed broke through Sherlock’s iron-clad resolve to put Holmes-and-Watson behind him. He sat up in bed and dropped his head into his hands, tugging roughly at his hair while he constructed a crate in his Mind Palace. Shoving those memories inside, he double-bolted the lid.

Another sound, soft but unmistakable, reached Sherlock’s ears. Sniffling. Was John - _crying_? Was he in pain, trying to find a comfortable position for his leg? 

Sniffling turned to hiccoughing, the sound of John trying to suppress tears. Sherlock’s chest felt like it was cracking in two, the pain of knowing his husband - John - was in distress as great as the pain of knowing that John would not welcome comfort from Sherlock. Releasing his curls, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his folded-up legs and rocked forward-and-back in agony. His hands grasped tightly together to keep him from springing from the bed and rushing up the stairs.

A sob. Quickly stifled by a hand over John’s mouth. Sherlock could picture it clearly in his mind. John hated to cry. Sherlock knew that from their years together; he’d actually known it before they were even a couple, when they were just friends. John went to great lengths to stifle his tears, even when the cold seeped into his injured shoulder and sent ice-blades of pain down his arm. Even when John’s beloved grandmother died, he would not allow himself the solace of tears. 

On the other hand, Sherlock’s tears had never bothered John. John had been a comfort when Sherlock needed him. And now that he needed Sherlock, the wall of John’s amnesia kept Sherlock from returning the gesture. John wasn’t type type of man to welcome comfort from a stranger. And that’s what Sherlock was to John - a stranger, a flatmate to share the rent, nothing more.

 _ _He was going mad.__ Sherlock couldn’t sit and listen to John’s anguish another minute. He sprang from the bed and jerked open the nearest dresser drawer, rummaging around until he found a blue t-shirt and faded gray track pants. Pulling them on as he headed down the hall, Sherlock gave in to his need for action. Even if John rejected his consolation, every cell in Sherlock’s body knew he needed to at least try to comfort his ( _soon-to-be-former?_ ) husband.

Pausing at the foot of the stairs to assess the situation, Sherlock heard the tale-tell scraping across the upstairs bedroom floor once again. John was going back to bed. Perhaps the pain in his broken ankle had abated. Perhaps a few tears had helped. Perhaps he’d heard Sherlock in the bedroom below - Sherlock hadn’t even attempted to be quiet - and realized that Sherlock was awake, so he’d clammed up. 

Whatever the reason for it, John’s crisis now appeared to be over. Sherlock heard the faint squeak of bedsprings as John adjusted his position in the bed. Holding his breath for a few seconds, Sherlock could not detect any further sounds of distress. 

He released the held breath in a quiet sigh, standing awkwardly on the first floor landing, wide awake. Going back to bed was more than he could face. Knowing that John was in the bed above his, perhaps awake, perhaps still agitated, was not something he wanted to endure. Eschewing socks, he sat on the top step to pull on the trainers he’d left on the landing. He leaned back to glance at the clock on the microwave - 11:43. 

London would still be bustling at not-quite-midnight on a warm Thursday in May. He could walk off his melancholy and perhaps return to get some rest in an hour or so.

Patting the pockets of his coat, Sherlock found cigarettes and lighter then scooped up his phone and keys from the coffee table. Treading quietly to avoid disturbing both Mrs. Hudson and John, Sherlock headed out into the balmy night air.

 

 

 

 

It didn’t help. 


End file.
